Boundary 2: Threshold (2 page)

"We've ditched the whiners and the guys who somehow ignored all our warnings about speculation and so on," Anne said. "We aren't broke, and we've got, what, five million square miles of mostly prime Martian real estate. We're helping build Phobos Station along with NASA, our own colony is starting up fairly well for something so early in the development stages, so what's the problem?"

"The problem is that we're about to be left out in the cold," Hank said bluntly. As Ares' financial genius, his job had always been to look ahead and find innovative ways to keep the perennially cash-short speculative venture afloat. A.J. couldn't ever recall a meeting where he'd looked more grim. "The presidential election ended just a little before the Mars-Phobos Treaties were finalized, and the president wasn't happy about the results of the treaties. Sure, anyone with sense would have realized that something like it would be the end result, but I think you people know that our president hasn't always been sensible unless what you said agreed with what he wanted. My contacts say he's going to be pulling in the wagons and focusing on purely U.S. interests—which means the government and large businesses. From his point of view, Ares really stole a march on NASA even though we were working together, and we've already been paid for our efforts. He probably doesn't think he owes us anything, and like most people he doesn't have any real gut grasp of the demands of space travel. So he won't think twice about doing things that can cause us one hell of a lot of problems."

"Like . . . ?" A.J. prompted.

"Like starting to make us pay our own freight. Yeah, we've started our colony, but it'll be a lot of long, hard years before we can even dream of them being fully self-supporting. If everyone's playing nice, they recognize that helping us stay established helps them with our expanding resource base and so on, but I don't think a lot of these guys will get that angle."

Anne sucked in her breath as the implications sank in. "Oh, hell."

"No kidding," Hank said.

A.J. turned the implications over in his mind. His gut churned as the situation clarified. "You mean we'll have to pay full price for launch capacity. When our own launch capacity never got developed outside of NASA because of the emergency get-to-Phobos-
now
project."

"It gets better. You know, I wasn't stupid when we got sucked into this. One of the deals I cut was that after the
Nike
mission was finished—and by the contract I negotiated, it was finished once we'd gotten to Phobos and provided a few months support—Ares could have any available launch capacity basically at cost of launch, no more. But . . ." Hank ran a hand through his prematurely white hair. "The treaty divvied up Mars, and for political points the U.S. used NASA's foresight in making the
Nike
engine-rocket assemblies detachable to offer each of the other space-capable nations—China, the E.U., Japan, Russia, and India—one pretested, functional, high-power NERVA engine to 'help bring all of Earth into the true Space Age,' as the president's one speech put it. The extra engine they agreed to give to the U.N. so they had something to use for their administration of the 'common property of the human race.' "

"So? That should help us, right? More people have a reason to get into space, and—"

Anne shook her head, and A.J. felt his face flush with embarrassment as he saw Hank's almost pitying look. "You're such a genius with your stuff that I keep forgetting that you're also as clueless as a kid sometimes. No, it hurts us. Because all the countries involved are now going to be using
all
of their available launch capacity to start building their own ships so they can hopefully find something—like another Bemmius base—that they can claim for their own use under the Buckley Addendum. So . . ."

Now he got it, and A.J. cursed aloud. "Son of a bitch. So there
is
no 'available' launch capacity for us to use! That means that we'll be competing directly with the government for its own launch capacity. They'll sell it to us, probably, for 'humanitarian' reasons—translated: they won't let us starve to death, probably—but they'll make it so expensive that we'll eventually have to give up and come home."

"Bingo."

He slammed his fist on the table. "Dammit, they can't do that! We fucking
gave
them Mars! They wouldn't even have
found
that stuff without me! If Ares hadn't shown them up early on, they wouldn't even be landing there now!"

Hank shrugged. "Fair doesn't mean much in politics. We aren't getting anywhere with that line of thought. We need a solution."

"Sure, I'll just cover myself with Faerie Dust, think a few Good Thoughts, and
fly
my ass back to Mars!" A.J. knew he shouldn't be directing his anger at either Hank or Anne, but he ached all over and this new turn of events was . . . well, just too much. He'd spent most of the last month working like a demon at Dust-Storm, only to be pulled out by an emergency call from Hank, leading to him spending almost everything he had to save Ares from a bunch of idiots . . . And now another bunch of idiots was threatening the whole project. "Sorry." He thought for a moment. "What about the U.N.?"

"Talked with Glenn and Joe on that a few hours ago," Hank answered. "Our guess is that since the U.N. doesn't have any launch capacity of their own, they'll be a long way from building anything. Their best bet will probably be to use the reactor as a power source for Phobos Station or something like that. The countries agreed to let the U.N. be the arbitrator because that was the only deal everyone could live with, but don't think any of them like it. We also don't know yet who's going to be in charge of the Interplanetary Research Institute, which is the body that will be running that part of the show. A couple of candidates could be useful, but a few of the others would be actively hostile to us for a lot of reasons."

Something was nagging at A.J.'s subconscious. Something about the mission to Mars . . . the original crew of
Nike
 . . . things said . . . that argument he'd had with Jackie, back in the restaurant before the disaster . . . Taken off the crew . . . Dammit, what was it?

"So, you think the space-capable powers will be competing?"

"Right now it looks like it. Maybe the other four will form some kind of temporary alliance to catch up with the United States, but in any case they'll be using everything they've got to make parity. Nothing left for us."

The idea was right there, almost in his hands. "So . . ." he said slowly, "we need more launch capacity. We can't build it, right?"

"You know
those
numbers, A.J. Yes, we could, if we had time. But . . . I'm guessing we can keep things running for a year or two on Mars, drawing on the credit we've got and so on, but if we have to build our own launch capacity, that goes way down. And of course then to reestablish ourselves we'll need
more
launch capacity—assuming that someone doesn't find some legal wrinkle to use that makes our
leaving
the area weaken our claim. Which they might."

Launch capacity. Outside launch capacity. Outside launch capacity that wouldn't be focused on building other people's ships. Why did he keep thinking of Jackie? She was a great engineer, but—

And then it hit him, in a blaze of inspiration. An ally, a reason, something that only one man would both understand and be able to make work. Somehow he
knew
this was the only chance they had.

Feeling his tired muscles scream in his thighs, A.J. stood. "I think there's a way.
We
can't do it, no. We need to keep our money for surviving long enough. But if we can convince one of the other countries to help us directly . . ."

Hank and Anne looked at him quizzically. "At their own expense?"

"No, for their own benefit. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm not stupid enough to think that I could convince any politician of anything like that. But I know one guy who could convince anyone of damn near anything. And he would understand exactly what has to be done, too. If I can get him to come here . . ." He almost ran out of the room, wireless processing already showing a search for the fastest way to contact his target.

The message ended. Madeline Fathom Buckley stared at the screen blankly.

"Oh . . . Jesus, Maddie . . ." Joe put his hands gently on her shoulders.

Without a word she turned and pressed into him, letting his arms enfold her. For the first time since . . . since she could remember, all she wanted was someone to hold her, tell her it would be all right, and make things better.

"That son of a
bitch
," she heard Joe growl, even as his hands gently stroked her back. "After everything you did for him!"

She pushed away, jaw setting. "Don't you dare blame him!"

"Huh?" Joe looked puzzled, then apologetic. "Not
him
," he said, nodding at the now-dark screen where Director Hughes' face had just moments before finished speaking. "The president. That rat bastard. Our mission—carried off on his timetable, so we could be doing our stuff right around election time—practically
gave
him the election. And now he turns around and does
this
?"

Madeline couldn't help it. She laughed. Then she hugged Joe so tightly that he grunted in discomfort. "You and your friend A.J. are such sweet little idealists. Every time I think you're not quite as innocent as he is, you say something that shows me you are. That's exactly
why
he's doing this, you silly man. He may have built the election on what we did, but in private, we—and especially I—embarrassed the hell out of him and his administration. Once he got the election in the bag, there wasn't any way he'd forget that. No politician likes getting put over a barrel. There wasn't any way he could get rid of the boss, though, so I knew—we both knew—he'd come after me. But I thought he'd do it differently."

She frowned, tapping her foot—a motion that, in one-third gravity, tended to slowly cause her to rotate in a lazy circle around her other foot. Director Hughes' message—delivered across the two hundred million miles that currently separated Earth and Mars—was of course couched in the most positive terms. Given that the president and National Security Advisor George P.D. Jensen—two of Madeline Fathom's least favorite politicians—were also in the message, Hughes had probably had no choice but to transmit it that way. She knew the director well enough, however, to know that the very exuberance of the message was his way of apologizing in public. The director had thanked her for her stellar service on the
Nike
mission, her courage and resourcefulness in the crash and survival thereof, et cetera, et cetera, and all the long hours she'd spent trying to maintain the balance between the needs of security and the practicalities of mankind's first sustained space exploration and colonization effort, et cetera, et cetera, and now said the time was right to reward her for this effort by promoting her. She was hereby relieved of her responsibilities as the representative of the United States' security interests in the Mars system. A new security representative had already been selected and was on his way. Madeline and Joe were welcome to take passage home on the
Nike
when she left, and the president had personally authorized a large baggage allowance so that they would have to leave nothing behind.

There was more, including fatuous congratulations from both the president and Jensen, but what it boiled down to was simple: now that the president no longer had to worry about elections, he was yanking her back to Earth and sending out someone who'd do what the president said instead of thinking for ten seconds about consequences.

She stopped suddenly and stomped her foot, sending her a short distance into the air. This startled Joe, who'd been watching her with both concern and admiration; the slow rotation made for an excellent view, and in private Maddie preferred pretty minimal clothing. Maddie was of course aware of Joe's scrutiny, but didn't begrudge him the view.

"You okay?"

"I'm okay, Joe. I . . . I just don't want to go. Even with you."

"We don't have to. You can stay here. I know Ares isn't exactly in the best shape, but we don't have to leave just because you're not working here."

That's true
, she thought with a sudden moment of wonder and fear. She stared at Joe. "I don't
have
to work for the HIA?"

Joe knew why she phrased it as a question. "No. You don't have to go back and push papers. You can stay here—at least as long as Ares manages to keep operations running." He studied her sympathetically. "But I know it might be hard to do that with some other guy trying to play super-security man."

She managed a slight laugh. "Oh, I think it would be at least as hard for my replacement, whoever he is. Remember, I happen to have a rather inflated reputation."

She tried to sit next to Joe with her usual relaxed intimacy, but despite all her years of discipline and training, she suspected Joe could sense her tension. She wondered if this was what a zoo animal would feel if someone just took away the cage. She'd always thought her attachment to the Homeland Investigation Authority was just loyalty on her part, but she now realized it had also been habit and psychological safety.

"Can we drop this subject? Maybe . . . there was something you were going to tell me, I think, before the call came in?"

As usual, Joe—bless him—didn't try to keep on the topic and press for a solution like ninety percent of the men she knew would have. He simply leaned back and smiled, almost naturally, as though nothing had happened. "Well, yeah, there was. You've been working so hard on the Mars Base—setting up stuff for the U.N. to take possession—and then running over here and helping A.J., me, Glenn, Reynolds, and the rest put up our own colony, that I think I've gotten a piece of political news ahead of you, while you were out there working."

That
would
be something of a little coup for Joe, given that Maddie usually paid far more attention to the news than he did. "Okay, give."

"They've announced the director of the Interplanetary Research Institute."